


Hide and No Seek

by Snowsheba



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Angst, Death, Gen, Homestuck Gift Exchange, prompt, well it's Gamzee so I guess that explains it all, wow what is this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-23
Updated: 2014-01-23
Packaged: 2018-01-09 17:40:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1148932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowsheba/pseuds/Snowsheba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Keep digging,” Karkat hisses besides you. </p><p>You do, and you take the time to reflect on the choices that have led up to this very moment.</p><p>[Written for the Homestuck Gift Exchange!]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hide and No Seek

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tumblr user bulletproofmessiah](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=tumblr+user+bulletproofmessiah).



> Seeing as the only requirement from [bulletproofmessiah](http://www.bulletproofmessiah.tumrbl.com) was ‘Gamzee’, I asked a friend for a prompt and then ran along with what they said. In my defense, anything that contains Gamzee isn't going to be a lighthearted story, unless it's moirail things with Karkat. Sometimes.
> 
> This is dark. People die. Also there are recreational drugs. Also this was written in about an hour.
> 
> (This also proves I am incapable of writing happy, fluffy fic unless heavily inspired. Yep.)

The holidays really shouldn’t have been this stressful. It’s just a holiday, after all. Karkat has friends, yes, but you’re the loner of the group, the weird cultist who smokes exactly two cigarettes a day and quite a bit of weed on the side. It’s not like you were actually doing anything when shit hit the fan.

Well, okay, you were higher than a motherfucking kite in the sky at the time, but you were just lying motionlessly on the couch. So really, you weren’t actually doing anything. Except hallucinating wildly. Which might have been the problem in the first place, and why shit actually did hit the fan.

Because let's be honest: how often do you have people barge into your house? Never. Like you said earlier, you don't actually have many friends. People know you, to be sure, but it's not like anyone hangs out with you on a regular basis, so your home tends to be a private nest to chill out. Besides, any motherfucker should know there are risks to busting into a house that belongs to a guy they don't really know. Didn't they teach that in elementary school? Stranger danger or some shit? Yeah, you think so. 

Which is why the guy should’ve been careful, instead of just throwing himself inside and babbling incoherently about some girl whose name might have been Ferrari. No, wait, Feferi. Yeah. That sounds about right.

Looking at the tired old corpse now, you’re surprised you ever mistook him for a minotaur. (Seriously, how high were you?) You’d beaned him in the head with a club and basically pounded him to death, you think, and Karkat had arrived shortly thereafter to find you flecked with blood, breathing hard, staring down at Eridan fucking Ampora’s dead body.

Which brings you to your current predicament.

* * *

Karkat says he’s been getting a fuckton of texts about Eridan – where is he, what’s he doing, have you seen him, et cetera et cetera – and this doesn’t bother you. Not really. You feel a bit unattached to everything, like you’re floating. That’s usually what happens when you’re transitioning from stoned to sober.

The world will come crashing down around your ears soon enough, though, and reality will slap you in the face in a few minutes. Once that happens, you’ll be productive and start moving.

“It’s Christmas, for fuck’s sake,” Karkat snarls, breaking you out of your reverie, “Could you have picked a worse day to go on a murder spree?”

“Ain’t exactly my fault, motherfucker,” you reply, absently. “He’s the one who went charging into my place without permission.”

“Yeah, whatever, we all know Eridan’s a douche, but it _is_ your fault you bashed his skull in,” Karkat flashes back. “Now he’s dead and Feferi and Sollux are going to lose their fucking shit over this.”

You make a vague noise of assent, and Karkat dramatically throws his hands up into the air, a faint, frustrated hiss escaping through his teeth. You give his dark-skinned cheek a pat before wobbling off to the bathroom to splash water on your face; that usually speeds up the sobering process a little bit.

God, you are so _stoned_. What the hell were you thinking last night?

* * *

By the time you are in complete charge of your mental faculties, Karkat’s already attacked the bloodstained floor with what you think is Lysol, a sponge, and a bucket of water. You help him out by heaving Eridan’s limp body over your shoulder and taking a random quilt you don’t remember ever getting (maybe Lalonde knitted it for you? Seems like a thing she would do) and wrapping the body with it, which you tuck into a ball.

Good thing rigor mortis hasn’t set in yet, you reflect, and you feel violently sick to your stomach at the sweet, coppery scent of blood. Which happens to be your fault. Which happens to mean you killed someone. Eurgh. You don’t throw up, and you return to Karkat, who has done a significant dent in the amount of red liquid on the floor.

“Don’t just stand there, bulgelicker,” he snaps, and you obediently go to find another towel to help him.

* * *

Of course you’re charged with carrying the body. You’re taller and stronger, for all your limbs are practically sticks. Plus Karkat’s lugging around the shovels that you didn’t know you owned, so it’s not like you can complain all that much.

“I could’ve been at Terezi’s party getting drunk and making out with strangers under the mistletoe and getting laid, but no, instead I am helping my fucked-up friend hide the body,” you can hear him mutter. Your brain registers this with faint annoyance as he goes on, “and I am literally _hiding the body_. Strider would have a field day with this, if he didn’t call the police first. Why is my life such complete bullshit, I swear to fucking god.”

“Sorry,” you say, more sharply than you mean to, but Karkat merely glances back and narrows his eyes at you, indicating you should shut up. You do.

You’re not really sure where you are when you finally stop walking – but that’s kind of the point, you think, as Karkat instructs you to place the body to the side, and starts to dig.

* * *

The next day it’s all over the news – the Christmas Day Murder, they’re calling it. Karkat comes later in the afternoon to show you, like you haven’t seen it plastered all over the place already.

“You’re lucky it was snowing,” he says, “It covered Ampora’s tracks so they don’t know he came to your house.” You notice how he’s taken to calling the guy Ampora instead of his first name, and you wonder if that should be as significant as you think it is. “In fact, no one even suspects you, which is a fucking miracle.”

“Serendipity,” you amend, your voice cold, and Karkat glares at you until you relent. (He did help you hide the body, after all.) “What’s a guy supposed to do now?”

“Beats me,” he says. “Except maybe you should try to not get fucking caught, I guess.” 

What a future you have ahead of you, not that you had one before, either. It hasn't really hit you that you've killed a man, yet, and you gather materials for a smoke because you don't intend to be sober when it does.

“Motherfucking fantastic,” you reply, and Karkat growls low in his throat in agreement.

* * *

Your name is GAMZEE MAKARA, and you are a murderer.

**Author's Note:**

> Dear lord what a trainwreck. I'm going to regret posting this so late at night.


End file.
